Smile For Me
by Glisseo
Summary: It's the little things that light up your life ... James Potter reflects.


He had fancied her, had felt an urge to look cool in front of her, had felt utterly deflated when she had made him feel the size of an insect. She was, in his opinion, the prettiest girl in the class, with her long, thick, shining hair and that wide smile that she never used on him. She was popular, always surrounded by friends; she was funny, sarcastic, and clever. She had an accent that did not quite match her smooth appearance, a strong Northern voice that was music to his ears. She could knock him down with a single scathing remark, and he admired that, admired her dazzling intimidation. He had watched her move through the school with her head held high, so elegant. He had wondered whether she ever got a hair out of place, whether she ever let her resistance crumble.

And then in sixth year, during a Quidditch match which Gryffindor had been losing, he had scored several goals in a row and looked down to see her screaming with joy, her hair wild, her eyes wilder, her delicate hands clenched into fists, stomping her feet. He had won the game, not for Gryffindor, but for her, just to see the pure, ferocious delight on her precious face.

He had made moves, slow moves, to get to _know _her after that. He felt he had seen through the careful erected barrier that was her dignity, and he wanted to break through it, he wanted to make her laugh like he had seen her do, he wanted to make her features light up.

He had started with greetings; smiling at her as she entered the Great Hall for breakfast, waving, asking her how she was. She had responded cautiously at first, but then with more enthusiasm. They became - acquaintances. Nothing more, nothing less. They were on friendly terms, but she had her group of friends and he his.

He had been made Head Boy in seventh year, and he had walked into the prefect's carriage to see her standing there, and when she had seen him her face had lit up into a smile so brilliant that he had almost fallen over; she had congratulated him with genuine delight, and he had told her that he had expected nothing less from _her_, and she had laughed. Laughed! At something he had said!

She had seemed truly happy to work with him, and he had felt there was nothing better than coming down into the common room on the night of a patrol and seeing her waiting there for him, her eyebrows raised at her watch, but with a smirk on her face.

He had wondered, more than once, when he had stopped seeing her simply as the girl he wanted to date, and started seeing her as the girl he wanted to _be with_.

Because as time passed, it became excruciatingly clear: he wanted to spend all the time in the world with her. His first and last thoughts of the day were of her. He tasted food and wondered whether she liked it. He read books, and wondered what she would think of them. _She was everything_.

Just before Valentine's Day, he had asked her to Hogsmeade with him. She had smiled, looked straight up at him with those dazzling eyes of hers, and said, "I thought you'd never ask."

He had thought exactly the same.

It had rained, poured it down, on the 14th of February, and he had met her in the common room, where she was sat by the fire, waiting for him. He had sighed, and suggested that they play chess, instead. She had looked at him like he was barmy, frowned, and said in surprise, "What are you talking about? I'll just go and get my umbrella."

They had had a blast, running through the puddles, she clutching his arm and squealing in between laughter. At one particularly big puddle, she had stated loudly, "I'm not running through that!", at which he had swung her up into his arms and lifted her across it. Once they were on dry ground, he had realised how _perfect _she felt in his arms, how _right _it was, and suddenly known that he never wanted to let her go.

The 14th of February had marked the anniversary of the first of many mind-numbing kisses.

The war had been raging around them, and yet they had the _normalcy _of being a couple, curling up in the same chair, he walking her to the classes that they didn't share, kisses in the corridors, pretending to be embarrassed at the giggles and whispers of others but enjoying them really. There were Death Eaters and there was Voldemort, danger lurking around the corner, but at the end of the day, there was Lily, her smell, her soft, silky skin, her delicious, bubbling laugh. And Lily was far more worth thinking about than the ugly Voldemort.

On Bonfire Night, he had proposed to her beside her parents' bonfire, as the fireworks scattered across the dark sky, and she had laughed and blushed and kissed him and said _yes_. They had married less than a month later, a completely Muggle wedding in her family's church, so her sister would come. She had, and Lily had thanked him profusely for agreeing to the Muggle wedding, for letting that happen. He had not cared what sort of wedding they had, Muggle or magic; he just wanted to marry her. She had worn her beloved grandmother's dress, and she had looked stunning. Young. Beautiful. She was eighteen, and yet she was committing her life to his, and she _wanted _to.

And then, little less than a year later, she had become pregnant, and when she told him he had cried and laughed and hugged her, wrapping his arms firmly around her, and they had stayed like that for a long time, a little unit. The _three _of them.

She had given him a son, a tiny little pink thing with dark hair, and his heart had swelled with love for both of them. They were in danger, so much danger, but _it didn't matter that much. _It didn't matter so much that he could not love his wife and son, that he could not have a happy life with them.

He had known - but not really believed - that one of his friends was betraying them, but as much as that had bothered him, he had Lily and Harry, and with them, he would not fall.

Halloween had rolled around, and he had carved pumpkins for Harry, lit them for him, just to see him gurgle laughter and smile a smile almost as beautiful as his mother's.

And then the walls of his perfect life were crumbling, falling down just like the door that Voldemort blasted open, and he screamed for his girl to run, to flee with her life and their son's, and he knew he would not make it, but he _needed _Lily to stay alive -

He had thought of her, aged seventeen, the happy Lily he had fallen in love with, her dazzling smile, and James Potter had died a happy man.

_**Phew! Err … gosh. I've been having problems with writing **_**That Was My Intention**_**, and this thing just flew out of nowhere! Perhaps this ought to keep you **_**TWMI **_**reviewers at bay, eh? **_

_**I know it's not perfect, and I know it misses details, but to be honest, I didn't want to focus on the war, or the prophecy, or anything like that. In fact, if it weren't for wanting to cover the marriage, I would have probably stopped at their seventh year.  
Anyway! Lily/Jamesness! Enjoy!**_


End file.
